Kelley Armstrong - Stolen,

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//-->PROLOGUEHe hated the forest. Hated its eternal pockets of damp and darkness. Hated its endless tangle of trees andbushes. Hated its smell of decaydead vegetation, dead animals, everything dying, even the living creaturesincessantly pursuing their next meal, one failure away from the slow descent into death. Soon his body wouldbe one more stink fouling the air, maybe buried, maybe left for the carrion feeders, his death postponing theirsfor another day. He would die. He knew that, not with the single-minded intent of the suicidal or the hopelessdespair of the doomed, but with the simple acceptance of a man who knows he is only hours from passing outof this world into the next. Here in this stinking, dark, damp hell of a place, he would die. He didn't seek death.If he could, he'd avoid it. But he couldn't. He'd tried, planning his breakout for days, conserving his energy,forcing himself to eat, to sleep. Then he'd escaped, surprising himself really. He'd never truly believed itwould work. Of course, it hadn't actually worked, just appeared to, like a mirage shimmering in the desert,only the oasis hadn't turned to sand and sun, but damp and dark. He'd escaped the compound to find himself inthe forest. Still hopeful, he'd run. And run. And gone nowhere. They were coming now. Hunting him. Hecould hear the hound baying, fast on his trail. There must be ways to trick it, but he had no idea how. Born andraised in the city, he knew how to avoid detection there, how to become invisible in plain sight, how to effectan appearance so mediocre that people could stare right at him and see no one. He knew how to greetneighbors in his apartment building, eyes lowered, a brief nod, no words, so if anyone asked about theoccupants of 412, no one really knew who lived there: Was that the elderly couple? The young family? Theblind girl? Never rude or friendly enough to attract attention, disappearing in a sea of people too intent on theirown lives to notice his. There he was a master of invisibility. But here, in the forest? He hadn't set foot in onesince he was ten, when his parents finally despaired of ever making an outdoorsman out of him and let himstay with his grandmother while his siblings went hiking and camping. He was lost here. Completely lost. Thehound would find him and the hunters would kill him. "You won't help me, will you?" he said, speaking thewords in his mind. For a long moment, Qiona didn't reply. He could sense her, the spirit who guided him, inthe back corner of his mind, the farthest she ever went from him since she'd first made herself known when hewas a child too young to speak. "Do you want me to?" she asked finally. "You won't. Even if I want it. This iswhat you want. For me to join you. You won't stop that. " The hound started to sing, joy infusing its voicewith melody as it closed in on its target. Someone shouted. Qiona sighed, the sound fluttering like a breezethrough his mind. "What do you want me to do?" "Which way is out?" he asked. More silence. More shouts."That way, " she said. He knew which way she meant, though he couldn't see her. An ayami had presence andsubstance but no form, an idea impossible to explain to anyone who wasn't a shaman and as easy for a shamanto understand as the concept of water or sky. Turning left, he ran. Branches whipped his face and bare chestand arms, raising welts like the marks of a flagellant. And equally self-inflicted, he thought. Part of himwanted to stop. Give up. Accept. But he couldn't. He wasn't ready to surrender his life yet. Simple humanpleasures still held too much allure: English muffins with butter and strawberry jam at the Talbot Caf, thesecond-story balcony, farthest table on the left, the sun on his forearms, tattered mystery novel in one hand,coffee mug in the other, people yelling, laughing on the busy street below. Silly things, Qiona would sniff. Shewas jealous, of course, as she was of anything she couldn't share, anything that kept him bound to his body. Hedid want to join her, but not yet. Not just yet. So he ran. "Stop running, " Qiona said. He ignored her. "Slowdown, " she said. "Pace yourself. " He ignored her. She withdrew, her anger a flash fire in his brain, bright andhot, then smoldering, waiting to flare again. He'd stopped hearing the hound, but only because his bloodpounded too loudly. His lungs blazed. Each breath scorched through him, like swallowing fire. He ignored it.That was easy. He ignored most of his body's commands, from hunger to sex to pain. His body was only avehicle, a medium for transmitting things like strawberry jam, laughter, and sunlight to his soul. Now after alifetime of ignoring his body, he asked it to save him and it didn't know how. From behind him came the bayof the hound. Was it louder now? Closer? "Climb a tree, " Qiona said. "It's not the dog I'm afraid of. It's themen. " "Slow down then. Turn. Confuse them. You're making a straight trail. Slow down. " He couldn't. Theend of the forest was near. It had to be. His only chance was to get there before the dog did. Ignoring the pain,he summoned every remaining vestige of strength and shot forward. "Slow down!" Qiona shouted. "Watch"His left foot hit a small rise, but he adjusted, throwing his right foot out for balance. Yet his right foot camedown on empty air. As he pitched forward, he saw the streambed below, at the bottom of a small gully erodedby decades of water flow. He flipped over the edge of it, convulsed in midair, trying to think of how to landwithout injury, but again he didn't know how. As he hit the gravel below, he heard the hound. Heard its songof triumph so loud his eardrums threatened to split. Twisting to get up, he saw three canine heads come overthe gully edge, one hound, two massive guard dogs. The hound lifted its head and bayed. The other twopaused only a second, then leaped. "Get out!" Qiona screamed. "Get out now!" No! He wasn't ready to leave.He resisted the urge to throw his soul free of his body, clenching himself into a ball as if that would keep it in.He saw the undersides of the dogs as they flew off the cliff. One landed atop him, knocking out his last bit ofbreath. Teeth dug into his forearm. He felt a tremendous wrenching. Then he soared upward. Qiona wasdragging him from his body, away from the pain of dying. "Don't look back, " she said. Of course, he did. Hehad to know. As he looked down, he saw the dogs. The hound was still at the top of the gully, howling andwaiting for the men. The two other dogs didn't wait. They tore his body apart in a shower of blood and flesh."No, " he moaned. "No. " Qiona comforted him with whispers and kisses, pleaded with him to look away.She'd tried to save him from the pain, but she couldn't. He felt it as he looked down at the dogs destroying hisbody, felt not the pain of their teeth, but the agony of unbelievable loss and grief. It was over. All over. "If Ihadn't tripped, " he said. "If I'd run faster . . . " Qiona turned him then, so he could look out across the forest.The expanse of trees went on and on, ending in a road so far away the cars looked like bugs crawling acrossthe earth. He glanced back at his body, a mangled mess of blood and bone. The men stepped from the forest.He ignored them. They didn't matter anymore. Nothing did. He turned to Qiona and let her take him away. ***"Dead, " Tucker said to Matasumi as he walked into the cell-block guard station. He scraped the mud of theforest off his boots. "Dogs got him before we did. " "I told you I wanted him alive. " "And I told you we needmore hounds. Rottweilers are for guarding, not hunting. A hound will wait for the hunter. A rottie kills.Doesn't know how to do anything else. " Tucker removed his boots and laid them on the mat, perfectly alignedwith the wall, laces tucked in. Then he took an identical but clean pair and pulled them on. "Can't see how itmatters much. Guy was half-dead anyway. Weak. Useless. " "He was a shaman, " Matasumi said. "Shamansdon't need to be Olympic athletes. All their power is in their mind. " Tucker snorted. "And it did him a wholelotta good against those dogs, let me tell you. They didn't leave a piece of him bigger than my fist. " AsMatasumi turned, someone swung open the door and clipped him in the chin. "Whoops, " Winsloe said with agrin. "Sorry, old man. Damn things need windows. " Bauer brushed past him. "Where's the shaman?" "Hedidn't . . . Survive, " Matasumi said. "Dogs, " Tucker added. Bauer shook her head and kept walking. A guardgrabbed the interior door, holding it open as she walked through. Winsloe and the guard trailed after her.Matasumi brought up the rear. Tucker stayed at the guard station, presumably to discipline whoever had let theshaman escape, though the others didn't bother to ask. Such details were beneath them. That's why they'd hiredTucker. The next door was thick steel with an elongated handle. Bauer paused in front of a small camera. Abeam scanned her retina. One of the two lights above the door flashed green. The other stayed red until shegrasped the door handle and the sensor checked her handprint. When the second light turned green, she openedthe door and strode through. The guard followed. As Winsloe stepped forward, Matasumi reached for his arm,but missed. Alarms shrieked. Lights flashed. The sound of a half-dozen steel-toed boots clomped insynchronized quickstep down a distant corridor. Matasumi snatched the two-way radio from the table. "Pleasecall them back, " Matasumi said. "It was only Mr. Winsloe. Again. " "Yes, sir, " Tucker's voice crackledthrough the radio. "Would you remind Mr. Winsloe that each retinal and hand scan combination will authorizethe passage of only one staff member and a second party. " They both knew Winsloe didn't need to bereminded of any such thing, since he'd designed the system. Matasumi stabbed the radio's disconnect button.Winsloe only grinned. "Sorry, old man, " Winsloe said. "Just testing the sensors. " He stepped back to theretina scanner. After the computer recognized him, the first light turned green. He grabbed the door handle, thesecond light flashed green, and the door opened. Matasumi could have followed without the scans, as theguard had, but he let the door close and followed the proper procedure. The admittance of a second party wasintended to allow the passage of captives from one section of the compound to another, at a rate of only onecaptive per staff member. It was not supposed to allow two staff to pass together. Matasumi would remindTucker to speak to his guards about this. They were all authorized to pass through these doors and should bedoing so correctly, not taking shortcuts. Past the security door, the interior hall looked like a hotel corridor,each side flanked by rooms furnished with a double bed, a small table, two chairs, and a door leading to abathroom. Not luxury accommodations by any means, but simple and clean, like the upper end of the spectrumfor the budget-conscious traveler, though the occupants of these rooms wouldn't be doing much traveling.These doors only opened from the outside. The wall between the rooms and the corridor was a speciallydesigned glass more durable than steel barsand much nicer to look at. From the hallway, an observer couldstudy the occupants like lab rats, which was the idea. The door to each room was also glass so the watcher'sview wasn't obstructed. Even the facing wall of each bathroom was clear Plexiglas. The transparent bathroomwalls were a recent renovation, not because the observers had decided they wanted to study their subjects'elimination practices, but because they'd found that when all four walls of the bathrooms were opaque, someof the subjects spent entire days in there to escape the constant scrutiny. The exterior glass wall was actuallyone-way glass. They'd debated that, one-way versus two-way. Bauer had allowed Matasumi to make the finaldecision, and he'd sent his research assistants scurrying after every psychology treatise on the effects ofcontinual observation. After weighing the evidence, he'd decided one-way glass would be less intrusive. Byhiding the observers from sight, they were less likely to agitate the subjects. He'd been wrong. At least withtwo-way glass the subjects knew when they were being watched. With one-way, they knew they were beingwatchednone were naive enough to mistake the full-wall mirror for decorationbut they didn't know when, sothey were on perpetual alert, which had a regrettably damning effect on their mental and physical health. Thegroup passed the four occupied cells. One subject had his chair turned toward the rear wall and sat motionless,ignoring the magazines, the books, the television, the radio, everything that had been provided for hisdiversion. He sat with his back to the one-way glass and did nothing. That one had been at the compoundnearly a month. Another occupant had arrived only this morning. She also sat in her chair, but facing theone-way glass, glaring at it. Defiant . . . For now. It wouldn't last. Tess, the one research assistant Matasumihad brought to the project, stood by the defiant occupant's cell, making notations on her clipboard. She lookedup and nodded as they passed. "Anything?" Bauer asked. Tess glanced at Matasumi, shunting her reply to him."Not yet. " "Because she can't or won't?" Bauer asked. Another glance at Matasumi. "It appears . . . I wouldsay . . . " "Well?" Tess inhaled. "Her attitude suggests that if she could do more, she would. " "Can't, then, "Winsloe said. "We need a Coven witch. Why we bothered with this one" Bauer interrupted. "We botheredbecause she's supposed to be extremely powerful. " "According to Katzen, " Winsloe said. "If you believe him.I don't. Sorcerer or not, the guy's full of shit. He's supposed to be helping us catch these freaks. Instead, all hedoes is tell us where to look, then sits back while our guys take all the risks. For what? This?" He jabbed afinger at the captive. "Our second useless witch. If we keep listening to Katzen, we're going to miss out onsome real finds. " "Such as vampires and werewolves?" Bauer's lips curved in a small smile. "You're stillmiffed because Katzen says they don't exist. " "Vampires and werewolves, " Matasumi muttered. "We are inthe middle of unlocking unimaginable mental power, true magic. We have potential access to sorcerers,necromancers, shamans, witches, every conceivable vessel of magic . . . And he wants creatures that suckblood and howl at the moon. We are conducting serious scientific research here, not chasing bogeymen. "Winsloe stepped in front of Matasumi, towering six inches over him. "No, old man, you're conducting seriousscientific research here. Sondra is looking for her holy grail. And me, I'm in it for fun. But I'm also bankrollingthis little project, so if I say I want to hunt a werewolf, you'd better find me one to hunt. " "If you want to hunta werewolf, then I'd suggest you put one in those video games of yours, because we can't provide what doesn'texist. " "Oh, we'll find something for Ty to hunt, " Bauer said. "If we can't find one of his monsters, we'll haveKatzen summon something suitably demonic. " "A demon?" Winsloe said. "Now that'd be cool. " "I'm sure itwould, " Bauer murmured and pushed open the door into the shaman's former cell.DEMONIC"Please tell me you don't believe in that stuff, " said a voice beside my shoulder. I looked at my seat-mate.Mid-forties, business suit, laptop, pale strip around his ring finger where he'd removed his wedding band. Nicetouch. Very inconspicuous. "You shouldn't read crap like that, " he said, flashing a mouthful of coffee stains."It'll rot your brain. " I nodded, smiled politely, and hoped he'd go away, at least as far away as he could on anairplane flying at an altitude of several thousand feet. Then I went back to reading the pages I'd printed fromthe believe. Com web site. "Does that really say werewolves?" my seat-mate said. "Like fangs and fur?Michael Landon? I Was a Teenage Werewolf?" "Michael . . . ?" "Uh, an old movie. Before my time. Video,you know. " Another polite nod. Another not-so-polite attempt to return to my work. "Is that for real?" myseat-mate asked. "Someone's selling information on werewolves? Werewolves? What kind of people wouldbuy crap like that?" "I would. " He stopped, finger poised above my papers, struggling to convince himselfthat someone could believe in werewolves and not be a complete nutcase, at least not if that someone wasyoung, female, and stuck in the adjoining seat for another hour. I decided to help. "For sure, " I said, affectingmy best breathless blond accent. "Werewolves are in. Vampires are so five minutes ago. Gothic, ugh. Me andmy friends, we tried it once, but when I dyed my hair black, it went green. " "That's, uh" "Green! Can youbelieve it? And the clothes they wanted us to wear? Totally gross. So then, like, Chase, he said, what aboutwerewolves? He heard about this group in Miami, so we talked to them and they said vampires were out.Werewolves were the new thing. Chase and I, we went to see them, and they had these costumes, fur and teethand stuff, and we put them on and popped these pills and presto, we were werewolves. " "Uh, really?" he said,eyes darting about for an escape route. "Well, I'm sure" "We could run and jump around and howl, and wewent out hunting, and one of the guys caught this rabbit, and, like, I know it sounds gross, but we were sohungry and the smell of the blood" "Could you excuse me, " the man interrupted. "I need to use the washroom." "Sure. You look a little green. Probably airsickness. My friend Tabby has that real bad. I hope you're feelingbetter, 'cause I was going to ask if you wanted to come with me tonight. There's this werewolf group inPittsburgh. They're having a Grand Howl tonight. I'm meeting Chase there. He's kinda my boyfriend, but heswitch-hits, you know, and he's really cute. I think you'd like him. " The man mumbled something andsprinted into the aisle faster than one would think possible for a guy who looked like he hadn't exceededstrolling speed since high school. "Wait 'til I tell you about the Grand Howl, " I called after him. "They're socool. " Ten minutes later, he still hadn't returned. Damn shame. That airsickness can be a real son of a bitch. Ireturned to my reading; believe. Com was a Web site that sold information on the paranormal, a supernaturaleBay. Scary that such things existed. Even scarier was that they could turn a profit; believe. Com had an entirecategory devoted to auctioning off pieces of spaceship wrecks that, at last count, had 320 items for sale.Werewolves didn't even warrant their own classification. They were lumped into "Zombies, Werewolves, andOther Miscellaneous Demonic Phenomena. " Miscellaneous demonic phenomena? The demonic part kind ofstung. I was not demonic. Well, maybe driving some hapless guy from his airplane seat wasn't exactly nice,but it certainly wasn't demonic. A miscellaneous demonic phenomenon would have shoved him out the escapehatch. I'd barely even been tempted to do that. Yes, I was a werewolf, had been since I was twenty, nearlytwelve years ago. Unlike me, most werewolves are born werewolves, though they can't change forms untilthey reach adulthood. The gene is passed from father to sondaughters need not apply. The only way for awoman to become a werewolf is to be bitten by a werewolf and survive. That's rare, not the biting part, but thesurviving part. I'd lived mainly because I was taken in by the Packwhich is exactly what it sounds like: a socialstructure based on the wolf pack, with an Alpha, protected territory, and clearly defined rules, rule one beingthat we didn't kill humans unless absolutely necessary. If we got the munchies, we pulled into the nearestfast-food drive-thru like everybody else. Non-Pack werewolves, whom we called mutts, ate humans becausethey couldn't bother fighting the urge to hunt and kill, and humans were the most plentiful target. Pack wolveshunted deer and rabbits. Yes, I'd killed and eaten Bambi and Thumper. Sometimes I wondered if peoplewouldn't consider that even more shocking, in a world where a dog thrown from a car garners more mediaattention than murdered children. But I digress. As part of the Pack, I lived with the AlphaJeremy DanversandClayton Danvers, his adopted son/bodyguard/second in command, who was also my partner/lover/bane of myexistence. . . . But that gets complicated. Back to the point. Like everyone else in the Pack, I hadresponsibilities. One of my jobs was to monitor the Internet for signs that some mutt was calling attention tohimself. One place I looked was believe. Com, though I rarely found anything deserving more than adismissive read-over. Last February I'd followed up something in Georgia, not so much because the listingsounded major alarms, but because New York State had been in the middle of a weeklong snowstorm and anyplace south of the Carolinas sounded like heaven. The posting I was reading now was different. It had thealarms clanging so hard that after I'd read it Tuesday, I'd left a message for the seller immediately, and set up ameeting with her in Pittsburgh for Friday, waiting three days only because I didn't want to seem too eager. Theposting read: "Werewolves. Valuable information for sale. True believers only. Two homeless killed inPhoenix 1993-94. Initially believed to be dog kills. Throats ripped. Bodies partially eaten. One oversizedcanine print found near second body. All other prints wiped away (very tidy dogs?). Zoologist identified printas extremely large wolf. Police investigated local zoos and concluded zoologist mistaken. Third victim wasprostitute. Told roommate she had an all-night invitation. Found dead three days later. Pattern matched earlierkills. Roommate led police to hotel used by victim. Found evidence of cleaned-up blood in room. Policereluctant to switch focus to human killer. Decided third victim was copycat (copydog?) killing. Case remainsopen. All details public record. Check Arizona Republic to verify. Vendor has more. Media welcome. "Fascinating story. And completely true. Jeremy was responsible for checking newspaper accounts of maulingsand other potential werewolf activity. In the Arizona Republic he'd found the article describing the second kill.The first hadn't made it into the papersone dead homeless person wasn't news. I'd gone to investigate, arrivingtoo late to help the third victim, but in time to ensure there wasn't a fourth. The guilty mutt was buried undersix feet of desert sand. The Pack didn't look kindly on man-killers. We hadn't been worried about the policeinvestigation. In my experience, homicide detectives are a bright bunch, smart enough to know there's no suchthing as werewolves. If they found mauling with canine evidence, they saw a dog kill. If they found maulingwith human evidence, they saw a psychopath kill. If they found mauling with both human and canineevidence, they saw a psychopath with a dog or a murder site disturbed by a dog. They never, ever, saw apartially eaten body, footprints, and dog fur and said, "My God, we've got a werewolf! "Even wackos whobelieved in werewolves didn't see such murders as werewolf kills. They were too busy looking for crazed,half-human beasts who bay at the full moon, snatch babies from cradles, and leave prints that mysteriouslychange from paws to feet. So when I read something like this, I had to worry about what other information thevendor was selling. The "media welcome" part worried me too. Almost all believe. Com listings ended with"media need not inquire. " Though vendors pretended the warning was meant to discourage tabloid journalistswho'd mangle their stories, they were really worried that a legit reporter would show up and humiliate them.When I went to investigate such claims, I used the guise of being a member of a paranormal society. Thistime, since the vendor had no problem with media, I was pretending to be a journalist, which wasn't much of astretch, since that was my profession, though my typical beat was freelancing articles on Canadian politics,which never included any mention of demonic phenomena, though it might explain the rise of theneo-conservatives. *** Once in Pittsburgh, I caught a cab, registered at my hotel, dropped off my stuff, andheaded to the meeting. I was supposed to meet the vendorMs. Winterbourneoutside a place called Tea forTwo. It was exactly what it sounded like, a cutesy shop selling afternoon tea and light lunches. The exteriorwas whitewashed brick with pale pink and powder blue trim. Rows of antique teapots lined the windowsills.Inside were tiny bistro tables with white linen cloths and wrought-iron chairs. Then, after all this work to makethe place as nauseatingly sweet as possible, someone had stuck a piece of hand-markered cardboard in thefront window informing passersby that the shop also sold coffee, espresso, latte, and "other coffee-basedbeverages. " Ms. Winterbourne had promised to meet me in front of the shop at three-thirty. I arrived atthree-thirty-five, peeked inside, and didn't find anyone waiting, so I went out again. Loitering in front of atearoom wasn't like hanging around a coffee shop. After a few minutes, people inside began staring. A servercame out and asked if she could "help me. " I assured her I was waiting for someone, in case she mistook mefor a vagrant soliciting leftover scones. At four o'clock, a young woman approached. When I turned, shesmiled. She wasn't very tall, more than a half-foot shorter than my five-ten. Probably in her early twenties.Long curly brown hair, regular features, and green eyesthe type of young woman most often described as"cute, " that catch-all description meaning she wasn't a beauty but there was nothing to drive her into the realmof ugliness. She wore sunglasses, a brimmed hat, and a sundress that flattered the kind of figure men love andwomen hate, the full curves so maligned in a world of Jenny Craig and Slim-Fast. "Elena?" she asked, hervoice a deep contralto. "Elena . . . Andrews?" "Uhyes, " I said. "Ms. Winterbourne?" She smiled. "One ofthem. I'm Paige. My aunt will be along shortly. You're early. " "No, " I said, returning her smile full-wattage."You're late. " She blinked, thrown off by my bluntness. "Weren't we supposed to meet at four-thirty?""Three-thirty. " "I was sure" I pulled the printout of our e-mail correspondence from my pocket. "Oh, " shesaid, after a quick glance. "Three-thirty. I'm so sorry. I must have jotted it down wrong. I'm glad I stopped byearly then. I'd better call my aunt and tell her. " As she took a cell phone from her purse, I stepped away togive her privacy, though with my heightened auditory senses I could have heard the murmured conversation ahundred feet off. Through the phone, I heard an older woman sigh. She promised to join us as soon as possibleand askedwarned?her niece not to start without her. "Well, " Paige said, clicking off the phone. "My apologiesagain, Ms. Andrews. May I call you Elena?" "Please. Should we wait inside?" "Actually, it's a bad place forsomething like this. Aunt Ruth and I had coffee here this morning. Food's great, but it's much too quiet. Youcan hear conversations from across the room. I guess we should have realized that, but we're not veryexperienced at this sort of thing. " "No?" She laughed, a throaty chuckle. "I suppose you hear a lot of that.People not wanting to admit they're into this kind of stuff. We're into it. I won't deny that. But this is our first .. . What would you call it? Sale? Anyway, since the tearoom turned out to be a bad choice, we had someplatters made up and took them to our hotel. We'll hold the meeting there. " "Hotel?" I'd thought she lived in [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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